


Sun Dogs

by kiev4am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cathartic Laughter, Exit Pursued By A Bear (And Vice Versa), Friendship Brotherhood Etc., M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 05:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiev4am/pseuds/kiev4am
Summary: The walk back from Victory Point yields one more surprise.Because they needed the laugh, and so did I: a shoehorning into TV canon of a book scene I talked abouthere.





	Sun Dogs

The fog comes down midway between the cairn and Terror Camp: icy, bone-yellow, clinging like shrouds of sea-rotten cloth. At first, James is glad of it. His confessions and Francis' gentleness have left him feeling tender and convalescent, and he welcomes the fog as both veil and cocoon; as cold as it is, its thick embrace holds them apart from the world, sequestered and together, an intimacy James cherishes second by second, knowing it cannot last. In unspoken accord they slow their pace, mindful of their bearings in the gloom. They speak little, inconsequentially, but every few minutes Francis looks across at him and smiles, as if to assure himself of James' presence and his mood, and James listens to the measured crunch of their footsteps and wishes for a mad, shameful instant - glassy joints and bleeding gums be damned - that he could walk with Francis in this strange muffled world, this frail paperweight moment, forever.

A small noise shatters it, somewhere ahead. Francis gives no sign of having heard, and James wonders briefly if the scurvy has taken his own senses. Then it sounds again and James hisses, " _Shhh!_ " He grabs for Francis' arm but he has already halted, his head cocked like a hunting dog, formidably still, listening.

They stand frozen. Now the fog is an enemy, the roiling walls of a trap. For a long time James hears nothing. And then it comes - a heavy, dragging tread across the shale.

Too rough, too large by far to be a man. The arctic atmosphere is merciless, each sound clearer than in nightmares: thick slow breaths, the scrape of massive claws, small stones scrabbling as if to flee its lurching weight. It is coming for them at last and there is nowhere they can hide, nothing but the parchment-coloured fog between themselves and bloody, gut-strewn death.

_Oh God, not now._ In the hair's-breadth of a second before he unshoulders his rifle James has time to ridicule his own thought; as if there were some _other_ hour when he'd accept this fate as timely. But he knows why it has struck him thus. Because of Francis. Because in all the strife and vanity of this benighted expedition, _now_ is infinitely dear to him: the first time in three years that James has reached beyond his layers of subterfuge and self-invention, has looked into another's eyes and found himself.

The beast is almost upon them, its pace inexorable. James lifts his gun, sees Francis raise his pistol in the corner of his eye; then Francis' shoulder collides with his, hard, and James realises with exasperated affection that he and Francis have each tried to do the same thing at the same time - to step in front of the other and defend him. There's just time to glance at him. One last look at his eyes. He wants to say it's been an honour, but those trite words wouldn't be enough. Not nearly enough. Side by side, they aim. And then its lifeless black eyes emerge from the fog, and Francis fires.

The shot is deafening to James' weakened ears, explosive, unbearable - and several feet high of the mark. Instead of the towering bulk of the Creature, a half-grown polar bear cub, barely three feet tall, huffs at them in panic and then turns tail, galloping off into the dimness. They hear its paws flailing on the loose scree and then it's gone, as utterly if they had imagined it.

Francis sags, almost dropping the pistol. "Jesus fucking Christ!" he gasps.

James looks at him. Something lights up in his chest, as wild and effervescent as the fuse on a Congreve. He clamps his hand over his mouth.

Francis stares. "It's not _funny_ , James."

James shakes his head, feeling the spark climb. For a moment he almost has it quashed. But then the corner of Francis' mouth betrays the smallest quirk, and his eyebrow goes up. His terrible right eyebrow. Damn the man. James loses his fight, dissolving into wholly unbecoming giggles, as cracked and squawky as a ship's boy drunk on hoarded grog. His only consolation is the glorious grin on Francis' craggy face, his rueful answering chuckle that rises and loosens until he throws his head back and guffaws, pointing weakly at the fog.

"A bear - a fucking _bear_ \- "

"We thought - thought it - was - "

James tries to speak more but the effort undoes him; he clutches his ribs and doubles up, his hat tumbling to the ground. Francis fares little better; he is laughing in hoarse, helpless glee, holding a fistful of James' coat for balance. James has never seen him laugh like this before, and it's a revelation; he wipes his streaming eyes with his gloves to see him clearly, realising at the same time that Francis is watching him through his mirth with equal intrigue. A wicked thought occurs to James and it sets him off again, so much so that he can hardly get the words out. It's too good to waste, though. "First - " he croaks.

Francis sees it coming. "No!"

" _First shot a winner, lads!_ "

Francis wheezes, slapping feebly at his arm. James is cackling like a fool and he does not care a single damn. It's not the respectable dry wit of an officer, the polished dinner-table cheer he has cultivated for the wardroom; this is his real laugh, raucous, inelegant and wholehearted, the stuff of pranks and dares and shameless, joyous absurdity - everything he's done his best to smooth from sight since joining _Erebus_ , rattling the unseen sky like cannon fire. He feels something tear in his side, where the scurvy is thinning his gunshot scar, and thinks _oh God, to die laughing!_ and a fresh fit of giggles sends him staggering to the ground where he forsakes all shreds of dignity and lies flat on his back, pressing his hands to his eyes.

After a while, he quiets. There's a scuffle of stones as Francis sits heavily beside him, a last laugh still shaking in his voice. "Are you all right, James?"

"No, I'm dead. Help."

"Never, ever tell Blanky. That's a Captain's order."

"Christ, no. We'd never hear the end of it."

James grins, keeping his eyes closed, feeling Francis' warm gaze. It's like light, he thinks; light where no light should be, like those ragged and uncanny second suns that bloom when air is rife with ice. Everything hurts but he feels reckless and unburdened, painfully and gratefully himself. He knows this moment for what it likely is - the last time he or Francis may ever laugh again - he knows the certainty if not the details of the grim and miserable realities that await them back at camp, but for these remaining seconds he determines that none of it will touch them. He reaches out blindly, and Francis clasps his mittened hand in his.

"We should go on," James says eventually.

Francis' voice is very quiet. "A few more moments," he says. "A few more moments, James."

**Author's Note:**

> It's surprisingly hard to write a scene that's just two people laughing like maniacs. For those who prefer less bittersweet endings, nothing in this story rules it out of [Stories Yet To Tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602193) continuity. I'm just saying.


End file.
